by Mia Sheridan
Why should anyone believe a word they said?
As Kandace stood, so that Sydney could hold the glass while Aurora drank, the pregnancy test stolen for her felt like a fifty-pound weight in the pocket of her uniform.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Scarlett moved a box aside, careful not to disturb the layer of dust that might explode in her face.
The sounds of banging echoed from above, making Scarlett smile. They were erecting the final studs in the newly enlarged kitchen and drywall would go up later that afternoon. One step closer. It was already a decent-sized room, but she needed to turn it into an industrial kitchen with more bench space.
Once the walls were complete, the fun part started . . . cabinets, stainless steel countertops, industrial-sized fridges and freezers, two ovens with induction cooktops, instant hot water, upper and lower cabinets, and paint. She could see it all in her head. Practically smell the sweetness of the cakes that would bake in the ovens.
Yes, once the kitchen was complete, she’d be in business again. Not fully in business, or at least not the business she planned—that was going to take a completed renovation of the house and grounds, a business license, brochures, business cards, a few employees, W-9s and who knew what other tax documents were necessary . . . but at least once the kitchen was complete, she’d be able to cook and bake. Maybe she’d drive into Farrow and see if one of the local stores was interested in selling some home-baked goods. It wasn’t that she needed the money, exactly—she’d planned financially—but what else was she going to do?
Not only that, but it was always good to build on her skill set. And perhaps she’d come up with a few new recipes that would really wow the brides.
Not to mention baking was her happy place. Creating beautiful and delicious food nourished her soul as much as it delighted those she fed.
It’d only been a month since she’d been in a kitchen—barring the quick batch of chocolate chip cookies she’d baked at Lilith House—and she already felt itchy.
The memory of the chocolate chip cookies brought Deputy West to mind but she pushed him from her thoughts. She had no desire to think about him. With a tad more strength than needed, she pulled a box aside, the weight of the item taking her off balance so she almost fell backward. She caught herself just in time, dropping the box, which fell apart in a burst of dust, spilling its contents onto the floor. Ugh.
Scarlett pushed at the box with her foot, revealing a pile of dark red fabric, the scent of mildew meeting her nose. Ew. She recalled the photo on the cover of the Lilith House brochure and wondered if those were extra uniforms meant for the students who’d attended the school. Likely.
Scarlett used her foot to slide the box and its contents over to the side of the basement she’d designated for junk.
Just as she went to pick up the next box, she spied what looked like an old trunk wedged between the pile she was working on and the one just behind it.
Leaning forward, she peered into it, a tingle going up her spine. A treasure chest she thought with an internal smile. In truth, it didn’t look fancy. It didn’t even look cool in that vintage way old things sometimes did, but rather simply ancient and dilapidated. Still . . . something about it spoke to her.
Quickly, she pushed the boxes in front of her aside and scooted the trunk forward. She knelt down on the floor and pried the rusty latch open, lifting the lid. Books. On the top was a thick, leather-bound Bible. Scarlett opened the flap but no name was written inside. She set that on the floor and pulled the next book out: The Chronicles of Narnia. Were these things that had belonged to one of the young women who’d lived at Lilith House? Perhaps even one of the girls who’d died in the fire? That thought pulled at Scarlett’s heartstrings. If she could find a name somewhere among these items, she was sure the girl’s family would want them.
Scarlett set the C.S. Lewis title aside, and another one by Mark Twain, and then pulled out a thick stack of papers enclosed in a suede wrap and tied with a leather string. Speaking of ancient . . . this thing looked like it was going to fall apart at any moment.
Scarlett sat back on her butt, leaning against a couple of boxes behind her and set the bundle on her lap, untying the string and unwrapping the suede covering. At the top was a piece of old linen paper filled with writing in a language Scarlett had never seen before. She squinted at it. What in the world? She moved a page aside and looked at the one beneath it. This paper looked more recent and the handwriting was in English, the letters carefully penned. Her eyes moved over the clean, concise lines, taking in the tale familiar to Scarlett.
It was Taluta’s story.
The one Camden West had told her as they’d sat drinking lemonade in the gazebo.
Scarlett rifled through the stack, confirming what she had guessed. “Oh my God,” she whispered into the empty basement. Taluta had written out the truth of her story and someone had translated it. Scarlett flipped to the end. Taluta’s writings ceased, but several pages in English told the end of her story. Because she hadn’t been there to do it anymore. She’d been tossed into the canyon and disappeared. Who? Scarlett wondered. Who did this?
The very last of their tribe died about three years ago and took their language with her.
Scarlett searched her memory but she couldn’t remember the name of the old native woman Camden had mentioned. Had she translated Taluta’s story? And if so, when? And how did it come to be at Lilith House?
Scarlett found the answer in a small black journal underneath the collection of Taluta’s papers and the translation.
“Narcisa Fernando,” she said aloud, reading the name inscribed at the front in that same neat penmanship. Yes, that was the name she couldn’t quite recall. She’d lived in a small house a few miles from here. Hadn’t that been what Camden said? She’d sold herbs and such in town.
Scarlett glanced at the journal. Only one page was written in and Scarlett’s stomach knotted as she read the words.
Mr. Bancroft hired me to tend to his wife who was with child, and then the expectant mothers of his parish, but really, I am his whore as my ancestors were to this family of devils. The baby he put inside me was taken, his club feet proving the mark of Satan, or so says Mr. Bancroft. But my baby is not of Satan, though his blood father is evil. They put me to sleep and left my baby on a rock in the forest to die. Mr. Schmidt tried to save my baby. He has a spark of decency in him, but the others are too powerful. Tonight, I shall follow my baby boy by my own hand for I have no other hope for escape.
Scarlett let out a heavy breath, her shoulders dropping. Holy Christ. Her heart ached. For a moment she simply sat staring, unseeing, at the disorganized junk in front of her. She’d known this house had a past but she hadn’t known such cruelty and suffering had filled the halls of Lilith House. A mild shudder went through her. One of the Bancroft sons had made Narcisa Fernando into his unwilling mistress, she’d borne a child of his, and then because of a physical abnormality, he had left him to die in the woods?
Good God, the unthinkable evil of that was almost too much for Scarlett to bear.
Narcisa had been right—her baby’s blood father was a monster.
And he’d come by it honestly. His ancestors hadn’t been any better, if not far worse.
She looked at the papers enclosed once again in the suede covering, and the journal. Had Taluta, who had once been kept captive in the house, written out her story during the time she was there? That had to be it . . . Scarlett didn’t imagine that native people had the type of paper and ink pen Taluta had used. Then later, Narcisa, who’d come to live in the Bancroft house had found Taluta’s writings and translated them, leaving the few necessary facts of her own time at Lilith House?
She’d intended on taking her own life. Hadn’t Camden mentioned something about a limp? Had she attempted to harm herself but only come away with an injury? A picture entered Scarlett’s mind of a woman, arms held wide as she pitched her body from an upper story window. She shook her head, di
spelling the image that had to have come purely from her imagination.
Scarlett bit at her lip, a feeling of deep sadness settling on her skin just as the dust in the basement had coated the trunk where two women’s brutal stories resided.
With infinite care, Scarlett set the two items down on a clean spot on the floor and went back up on her knees, peering once again into the trunk and pulling out what appeared to be old photos, each encased in a thick paper frame. The first one was of a man in his mid-fifties with silver hair and distinctive sideburns. He sat looking to the side, his mouth set, expression stern. Scarlett pulled the photograph from its covering and turned it over. H. Bancroft was printed in the bottom right corner. Hubert Bancroft. Scarlett turned it right side up and stared at the man for a moment, thinking about the things she knew about him, the evil deeds he’d performed, the lives he’d ruined. She turned the picture back over and returned it, face down this time, to its frame.
The next few photographs were of Lilith House in various stages of construction. Scarlett looked through these with interest, noting the things that were different about the house in its infancy, and the things that remained unchanged.
Under those was a photograph that looked just as old as the original Lilith House photos. It was of five figures dressed in what looked like ancient war garb. A deep shiver went down Scarlett’s spine. One of the figures wore a horned headdress, two held long, sharp spears, another was dressed entirely in furs, a mask that looked like a pointy bird beak covering his face. Could this be a picture of the man Camden had mentioned to her? The one who had donned an outfit just like this before he died, and now supposedly wandered the woods beyond?
She set it aside, but paused for a moment, waiting for the deeply unsettled feeling to pass before moving on.
The next photograph was of a group of men, all wearing similar white suits standing in front of Lilith House, a photograph she’d seen before hanging on the wall of Sister Madge’s office. She studied it close up now, looking at the men who stood shoulder to shoulder, one more austere than the next.
She removed the photo from its frame and looked at the back. Religious Guild, was written in the corner in the same handwriting as had been used to identify Hubert Bancroft on the back of his photograph. She turned it back over, her eyes moving from one face to the next. Hubert Bancroft was in the center. She recognized his stern expression and those notable sideburns. Something skittled under her skin, racing up her spine. Were the rest of them the men in Bancroft’s ministry? The ones who’d joined him in brutalizing and murdering the natives? She was tempted to use her fingernail to scratch Xs over each of their villainous faces.
Still, as with Hubert Bancroft’s photo, Scarlett turned it over and placed it face down in its frame.
The last photo was again of a group of men, all in white suits, standing in front of Lilith House. Only this photo was much more recent.
The sons of Farrow. They’ve held the moral line for centuries.
Scarlett frowned, looking closer. She didn’t recognize any of the men except one, the sheriff, though he looked about fifteen years younger. She turned the photo over but no information was written on the back, not even a date. She flipped it again. This must be a more recent photo of the Farrow Religious Guild. But if so, why were they standing in front of Lilith House? If the photo was fifteen years old or so, then Lilith House had been a reform school. What did these men have to do with that? For some reason—most likely because of the photo that had been hung directly next to the picture of the original Religious Guild in Sister Madge’s office—the old nun’s words about fallen women came back to her.
I like this depiction, because she’s seeking atonement by reaching for the blessing of a righteous man. So many do not, you know. Atone.
Was that what they’d been at Lilith House to offer? Some form of atonement? A religious ceremony wherein the girls might absolve themselves of their sins? And how exactly did that work? These were not prophets, nor deities. They were just men who’d joined some church group. How exactly were they qualified to offer atonement to anyone?
After a moment, she set the photos on the floor and knelt forward again, peering into the trunk once more. She removed one book, then another until she got to the musty, fabric-lined bottom. Nothing else remained.
Frowning, Scarlett glanced around at the books. Whose had they been? Who had been the keeper of Taluta’s and Narcisa’s stories? Who had obtained the old photos of Hubert Bancroft, Lilith House, and different generations of the Religious Guild? It all seemed . . . connected in some way she didn’t have enough information to understand. She hesitated a moment and then began placing the books back in the trunk. When she got to the Bible, she paused, opening it again and flipping to the back. Still no name. No information about who had once owned it.
Scarlett closed it and then used her thumb to flip through the interior pages, noting the underlined passages and the highlighted portions, one question mark after another in the margins. The reader of this Bible had struggled with questions of faith. She wondered if they’d ever been answered. Scarlett stopped suddenly when she spied something flattened in the middle. She opened it wide, pulling out the item and swallowing heavily.
With trembling fingers, she grasped it delicately, expecting it to crumble, but it didn’t. She held it up, bringing it close to her face so she could take in all the intricate details.
It was a bird.
Formed with a strand of grass.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Scarlett knocked on the blue painted door, waiting a minute before turning back toward the street. She’d dropped Haddie off at Millie’s with the bird and the bunny, and then gone straight to the address where Millie told her the boy in the wheelchair lived with his parents. The child Haddie had evidently made scream bloody murder a few days before. She’d brought it up with Haddie, and though Haddie had looked confused and ashamed—just as she had after the church daycare incident—Scarlett had again, comforted herself with the belief that Haddie wasn’t a bully. She’d seek clarification from the boy’s mother before addressing it again.
Unfortunately, that day wouldn’t be today. No one was home.
Scarlett got back in her car, and pulled away from the curb. She purposely avoided looking at the house Camden had come out of the other day, and headed to the pet store where, apparently, she might want to consider signing up for a frequent shopper discount. “No more rescue pets please, God,” she whispered to the big guy in the sky. There was only so much Scarlett could take on, though she supposed it was her fault that she hadn’t considered what else came with owning a house at the edge of a forest full of creatures. Perhaps soon, they’d have their own small petting zoo, and wasn’t that just what she needed?
She pulled into the lot, and as she was walking toward the store, Camden West pulled into a space, got out of his truck, and headed toward the door as well. He was wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt, obviously off duty. They eyed each other, Scarlett slowing her pace so they wouldn’t get to the entrance at the same moment. Crap. She really hated small towns. The likelihood of running into people you really didn’t want to run into were far too high.
She considered turning around and coming back another time, but while she was wary and suspicious of Camden West, and yes, still hurt, she didn’t quite hate him enough to starve a baby bunny.
His gaze stayed on her, that stupid enigmatic expression on his face that he too frequently wore. He held the door for her for a moment, but she knelt down and pretended to tie her shoe . . . because she was just that mature.
When she stood, he had taken the hint and gone inside. She headed in as well, spotting him in her peripheral vision over in the dog food section. Scarlett asked the clerk to help her find a formula suitable for a baby rabbit, took the first thing he recommended, paid for it, and left the store.
Camden was waiting outside the door.
Scarlett startled slightly, clutching her bag to her chest. As s
he turned and began walking to her car, Camden followed, walking beside her.
“Baby bunny?” he asked.
She glanced at him. “Yes. I’m running a zoo out of my house these days, Deputy. So you’ll understand if I don’t stop to chat. Have a good—”
“Scarlett.” He reached out and took her upper arm and she stopped short, looking at the place where he touched her. He let go as if he’d suddenly realized she was made of fire. Two high spots of color appeared on his cheekbones. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “But I think we need to talk.”
At the imploring look in his eyes, she sighed. Despite that she hadn’t been prepared to do it today, she wanted to talk to him too. He’d lied to her—not about the woman, she wasn’t going to bring that up because she did still have some pride—but about Lilith House. He had some connection to it that he hadn’t divulged to her and she wanted an explanation. She wanted to know why Farrow’s deputy sheriff had sought to purchase Lilith House before her, and why he had personal effects in its basement.
“I live a couple blocks from here,” he said, glancing around. “We could sit on my porch if you don’t want to go inside. It’s more private than this parking lot.”
She shifted back and forth from one foot to the other. Mason and his team were already at her house, and they didn’t really expect her back anytime in particular. Plus, if she was going to agree to talk to him, he was right, this was not the place to do it. She might not like what he had to say, and she wouldn’t be seen standing in the pet store parking lot of her new town fighting with Farrow’s deputy. “Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll follow you in my car.”